Gone
by PhoenixFlame123
Summary: Sherlock had never imagined this. Never considered this as a possibility. But John was gone - gone - and it was all Sherlock's fault. / AU, pre-Reichenbach or pretending it never happened. John whump, bordering Johnlock, but if you squint a bit, it could just be bromance. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

** My first Sherlock fic I've posted. Please tell me what you think!**

** This could be, I guess, regarded as AU; it takes place either before Reichenbach, or pretending Reichenbach never happened, take your pick. Everyone's alive! haha**

** (I'm American, and this hasn't been Brit-picked, so if I use wrong words or phrases. forgive me! :] I know the dates are Americanized and I tried to do it the other way round, but it got me too confused so I'm sticking with how it is.)**

** ~Phoenix~**

** /\/\/\/\**

_**7:58 p.m., September 17**_

"Sherlock, if you'd stop being so stubborn -"

"John, if you'd stop being such a dull _idiot," _Sherlock snapped in reply, "Maybe you'd understand something for once!"

Silence fell in the flat. John blinked. Straightened up.

"Well. I suppose that's it, then, hm?" Sherlock didn't reply. "Have it your way," John said coldly, grabbing his coat, "I'm going _out._" He slammed the door behind him as he stalked out.

John could vaguely hear his flatmate say something loudly, still arguing to thin air. Did Sherlock even _listen _to him_? _He imagined not. John tugged his coat on impatiently as the door to 221B slammed behind him, muffling Mrs. Hudson's nervous calls.

John wasn't quite sure where, exactly, he was going - he just knew he needed to get away from Sherlock for a while. He let his thoughts wash over him as he randomly wandered the streets. His head was ducked and his strides fast-paced, his heels clacking loudly against the concrete. He was broiling, absolutely _furious._

John considered Sherlock his friend - of course he did. His best friend, really, not matter what his aloof flatmate would insist - and with good reason. After all, they had saved each other's lives, risked everything for each other. Sherlock _was_ his best friend, and undoubtedly it was the same the other way around.

But sometimes he just said the most infuriatingly awful things, and... John didn't know if he was even human.

This was definitely one of those times.

Time passed and the doctor's pace grew slower, his thoughts calmer. Yes, these days did happen. But John knew that Sherlock didn't really mean all the terrible things he could say. And John did care about Sherlock - dearly. Quite more than he would ever be willing to admit to the consulting detective.

Shaking such thoughts out of his head, John lifted his gaze, blinking into reality. It was then that he realized he had no idea where he was. Checking his watch, he found he had been walking for nearly half an hour. He reached a hand into his pocket, checked his mobile, and cursed under his breath. It had run out of battery, completely dead.

He didn't allow himself to worry and starting walking again - once he found a street sign or a phone booth, he would be able to get his bearings. However, the longer he had walked, the shadier his surroundings had become, and now he was practically walking down an alleyway. Things were quiet, and he was alarmed to see the sun starting to slip behind the buildings.

Nobody was around. It was dead silent, except for his own breathing -

- and another pair of footsteps.

John stopped walking, and almost stereotypically soon did the other pair of footsteps. He took a deep breath. A coincidence, this was a coincidence. Besides, it was all much too cliché to be real. This wasn't a show on the telly; he wasn't some screen.

Nobody was following him.

He continued walking and closed his eyes, taking a breath, as the second pair of footsteps picked up as well.

His own footsteps quickened along with his heart rate. Around him rang the deadliest kind of intense silence that chills you, broken only by the sound of another pair of feet following after him.

John looked over his shoulder but saw nothing but shadows. Now he really wished he had a working mobile. He hugged his coat tighter around him and tried to block out the steps behind him; he heard them speed up and now he started running -

There was a blast, white-hot heat, and John's body smashed violently to the concrete.

/\/\/\/\

_**9:02 p.m., September 17**_

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring idly out the window. Well - he said _idly._ Physically, perhaps, but his mind was going at about five hundred miles an hour.

He hated when he and John had rows with each other. He would get all worked up and just lash out with the most violent words - and, well, maybe they were true sometimes, but he never meant to hurt John. He never wanted to hurt John.

Mrs. Hudson was hovering in concern by the door. "Is everything alright, Sherlock?" she ventured timidly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. _No._ "Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he replied politely, "it's fine. John and I just had a... disagreement."

Mrs. Hudson laughed at that. "Yes, that's what I always called having a yelling match with my husband, too," she chuckled, somewhat humorlessly. Sherlock stiffened slightly.

"Except he's not my _husband_," he said somewhat harshly, "he's just my _flatmate._"

"Same thing, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson joked lightly. Sherlock could sense her uneasiness shaking slightly in her voice. When he didn't respond, she gave a tiny sigh and paused for a moment longer before leaving.

Sherlock also sighed, just slightly, and checked his watch. A slight hint of concern slivered through his skin, and although he tried to shake it off it wouldn't leave.

John had been gone for a bit over an hour.

He could have gone somewhere, he supposed. But where would he have gone? As far as Sherlock knew, John didn't have a _girlfriend_ at the moment - the thing with Sarah had ended a while ago. Sarah had been too fed up with the constant life-threatening danger, and... Well... maybe it had to do a little bit with Sherlock. Sherlock sighed, his foot tapping anxiously against the floor. He checked his phone again. Since John had left, he had sent him numerous texts, none of which had been replied to, to Sherlock's great frustration. He scrolled through the list of texts he had sent.

**Where did you go? SH**

** Stop being childish. Come back to the flat. SH**

** John? Where are you? SH**

** I'm getting worried. SH**

** It's getting dark. Please come back. SH**

** You're making me nervous. SH**

** If you're waiting for me to apologize, it's not going to happen. SH**

** ...I'm sorry, then. Just come home. SH**

** John. This is getting ridiculous. At least let me know you're safe. SH**

** I'll call the police if you don't answer. I'll call Lestrade. SH**

** Okay, I'm not really going to call Lestrade, but you need to tell me you're okay. SH**

He had even resorted to _calling_ John a few times in the middle there, which had proved just as fruitless as texting, and now he was only more anxious than before. John did have the annoying habit of ignoring him when he was angry, but this was just irritating.

Not to mention worrying.

Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands. Okay. He was overthinking things. He was always overthinking things. John was just talking to a new _girlfriend _or at a bar or something, ignoring the buzzing phone in his pocket, and being normal.

Getting away from his freakish friend for once.

Sherlock sighed and hoisted himself out of his chair, starting to pace. But this wasn't like John. Not at all. Or maybe it was. Yeah, it was. But -

His phone started ringing shrilly, breaking him out of his frantic panic. He started and blinked in surprise, then lunged for it; the caller ID proclaimed that John was, indeed, calling, and he answered it swiftly.

"John, for the love of God, where have you been? Have you not seen all the texts I've been sending you? You had me worried for a second!"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Sherlock let out a huff of air. "Okay, quit it with all this silent treatment business, you're acting like a child." More silence. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair as he resumed pacing. "It's getting late, that's all, and I didn't know where the hell you went. I wanted to make sure you were safe."

Finally, the silence on the other end of the line was broken as a dark chuckle rang into Sherlock's ear, making his stop dead in his tracks because _that was not John. _He checked the phone again but yes, he was sure - this was John's phone, but the person talking was _not John._

"Well isn't this just _delicious,_" growled the terrifyingly familiar voice on the other end of the line, and Sherlock's heart ran cold with an emotion usually foreign to him.

Fear.

"Grown attached to your little pet, have you?" mocked the voice on the other end of the line that was completely, undoubtedly, Jim Moriarty. "Great big Sherlock Holmes grown fond of his little friend?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "Where did you get this phone?"

Moriarty laughed again. "Why don't I have _John_ answer that little question? Joooooooohnnnn! Why don't you talk to Sherlock for me?" The phone seemed to bump, like it was moving around, but there was silence. It moved back to Moriarty who said in mock concern, "Oh, it seems like poor Dr. Watson is a little... _occupied _at the moment." He giggled insanely. Sherlock was gripping the phone so intensely it might had broken underneath his hand, but he paid it no notice.

"You give him back to me," he hissed into the phone, "Or I swear - if you hurt one _hair_ on his head, I _swear _to God -"

"Oh, but I don't think I believe you, Sherlock," Moriarty's voice mocked sadly over the phone. "And I think we're going to have a lot of _fun_ with Dr. Watson once he wakes up, don't you, boys?" Sherlock could vaguely make out muffled jeers and laughter from the background and could practically _see _Moriarty's demented smile.

"Have a good night's sleep, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered into the phone, and then the line went dead.

Sherlock was still. Completely still. For only a moment.

His hand shaking, he moved to press a key on his phone. It dialed.

A weary, sleepy voice answered. "What do _you_ want?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, very quietly, trying desperately not to let his utter panic show in his tone, "You have to get over here right now."

Now Lestrade was more alert, because Sherlock never called _him_ for help; it was always the other way around. But this time... "What? What for? What's wrong?"

"It's Moriarty. He's back." He steadied himself for a moment before adding, his voice quavering, "And he's got John."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for reviewing,**___**InsideYourDreams24, SherlockFan, and Sherlocked Girl on Fire! **_**It really helps a lot! :)**

**/\/\/\/\**

_**6:12 a.m., September 18**_

John woke up in pitch darkness with uncomfortable weight around his wrists and feet and a blinding, pounding headache. He groaned loudly, shifting himself up from the floor he had been sprawled over, and rubbed his head. As he lifted his hands he heard the soft clinking of metal, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he gaped in shock at the thick chains that were binding his wrists and ankles to the floor.

No way this was happening.

This was some kind of morbid dream.

But this was much, much clearer than any dream he had ever had, and the acute pain in his temples weren't helping the theory. He gazed around his surroundings, finding himself in a damp cell-like room. He could make out one large, thick steel door in front of him, where the faintest shaft of light was just barely managing to sneak through the crack at the bottom.

Okay. Okay.

This was real.

John vainly struggled to recall what had happened the previous day, but his head was too fuzzy to recall anything other than a few vague details. He started to panic, heart racing, gasping for breath.

_Okay. Calm down. It's okay._

That was the fourth time he had said 'okay'; his vocabulary was having a tough time reloading in his brain. He steadied himself.

Start with what he knew.

He closed his eyes and forced his brain to work.

He had been having a fight with... Sherlock.

Just that thought sent calming waves over him. Sherlock. If this was anything bad, he knew that his friend would be on the case immediately. Sherlock would rescue him.

Until then, he needed to figure out what was going on.

He had left the flat in a rage - he remembered that - then was walking... he had gotten lost...

His eyes flew open as he remembered completely. Someone had been following him. Then white-hot pain, and -

This.

John touched his side and immediately felt a spike of pain jolt his body - he looked down to see a bandage wrapped around his middle.

He had been _shot_?

Was somebody trying to kill him-?

No, if they wanted to kill him, they would have done that already.

Someone had meant to bring him here.

This knowledge made him gulp. He leaned his head against the wall his back was resting against, taking deep breaths and relaxing. He needed to have a clear mind if he was going to look for an escape.

Just as he had thought this, he heard footsteps in the hallway outside his cell. There was muffled conversation, a loud laugh, and the sound of scraping. The door swung open slowly, bright light shining through. John was temporarily blinded, and he put his hand to his forehead to shield the excess light. When he blinked and his eyes began to adjust, he could make out the silhouette of a large, thick man standing in the doorway. He was unfamiliar and quite an intimidating sight.

"Good. He's awake," he grumbled, his voice a deep bass. Another one appeared behind him, and they seemed like almost carbon copies.

"So we get to knock 'im out, then?" the other one said cheerily, his voice a bit higher and cheery, with a hint of a cockney accent.

"You can do the honors, I've a bit of a hangover," grumbled the thicker man, and the second guard chuckled coldly as he advanced towards the army doctor sitting in the cell.

John tried to scrabble away from him with his legs, pushing back, feeling very helpless and pitiful as the guard advanced towards him with a large, cruel smirk plastered across his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, scream, _anything, _but his voice wouldn't work, and all that came out was a small little whimper before the guard lifted a thick club and smashed his head over with it. He crumpled to his side and, once again, the world faded to black.

**/\/\/\/\**

_**7:39 a.m., September 18**_

Sherlock didn't know where John was. He didn't know what Moriarty wanted. He didn't know how to find him, or what to do once he found him - he didn't even know if John was alive or not.

The only thing he knew for certain, in absolute conviction, was the fact that he really, really wanted to punch Sally Donovan in the fact at that moment.

"I _told_ John something like this would happen if he stuck around with you," she was muttering coldly, sending pointed glances Sherlock's way. He was struggling to ignore her, knowing that losing his temper would not be helping them find John any sooner.

After having found nothing of use at 221B, the police station had spent the night searching the streets and sending out 'Missing Person' notifications. Now, they were examining Sherlock's phone, trying to trace the call back to its location.

Sherlock didn't understand the point. They already knew it came from John's phone, but Moriarty wouldn't be stupid enough to let them know his location. He was sure to have prevented any sort of tracing to be done.

Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan were now in Lestrade's office, trying to come up with any sort of lead.

Donovan was being a bit less than helpful.

"But he didn't believe me. And now look where he is," Donovan continued, her thousandth variation that day of the same message - _You're a freak, and this is all your fault. _This was a fact Sherlock was well aware of and did not need to be reminded of. His fists clenched angrily, and Lestrade could sense his anger.

"Donovan," he reprimanded shortly, "Enough of that. Make yourself useful."

She glared one more time at Sherlock before whirling on her heel and marching out of the room.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. There was a brief pause. "So, any ideas?"

"None," Sherlock snapped in reply, spinning and starting to pace. "Moriarty didn't give any kind of clue, there was no background noise, _nothing_ to signify where the hell he might have been - something very odd of him. He likes to play the game, he likes to 'watch me dance'. But this time there's no game. There's nothing for me to dance _to._" Sherlock breathed in deeply, running his fingers through his hair.

"So... what do we do?" Lestrade was obviously disturbed by the consulting detective's panicked state.

"I don't know." Just those three words sent waves of panic up and down Sherlock's spine. He collapsed in a chair in front of Lestrade, staring blankly at his desk. "I just don't know."

There was silence between the two before Sherlock spoke again.

"We wait, I suppose. Wait for a clue."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Sooner or later, he'll give us _something,_" Sherlock said, noting the hint of desperation in his own voice. "...he has to."

Lestrade was looking at him with concern. "Listen, Sherlock... if you don't want to be on this case, I understand. It has to be really hard for you to -"

"What are you talking about? Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped, his head whipping up to glare at the Detective Inspector. "Of course I have to be on this case! This is my fault John's gone, anyways, and by God if it's the last thing I do I have to make sure he's safe!"

This sudden outburst was met by an awkward silence, and Sherlock suddenly realized he was standing. He sank slowly back into the chair.

"I'm... sorry. That was -"

"Do you really believe this was your fault?" Lestrade interrupted in disbelief. Sherlock peeked up at him again incredulously.

"I don't _believe _so. I know so," Sherlock said simply, hiding quite well that this very fact was viciously tearing out his insides with every breath he took.

"Well, that's a silly thing to think," Lestrade said, leaning forward. "Dr. Watson was - _is," _Lestrade corrected with a wince, "a very intelligent man, Sherlock. He knew what he was getting himself into, being around you. And _when_ we find him, he's going to be the first to tell you not to blame yourself."

Lestrade was being logical, of course, and Sherlock could just see John rolling his eyes at his flatmate in exasperation. _"Of course it's not your fault, Sherlock. Don't tell yourself that."_

But Sherlock didn't believe him.

He didn't believe either of them because he knew that what he was saying was true.

This was his fault.

Sherlock cleared his throat, mumbling a noncommittal affirmation, before standing.

"I'm going to go... get... water," he muttered vaguely, sweeping out of Lestrade's office distractedly.

But all he ended up doing was leaning against the wall in a somewhat vacated hallway, staring into space and forcing his mind to work harder than usual. He tried to remember every single detail about what Moriarty had sounded like, but nothing unusual stood out. He had already recorded every word the evil mastermind had said and analyzed them repeatedly.

_Well isn't this delicious. Grown attached to your little pet, have you?_

Sherlock shuddered, recalling the absolute cruelty soaking Moriarty's tone. He usually never let things like that bother him, always keeping up his emotional wall to stop himself from getting overly invested in the case. But this...

...this was John.

Sherlock couldn't imagine losing him.

Just that thought sent unearthly shivers down his spine. He shut his eyes, willing the thought away.

He couldn't lose John.

He _wouldn't_ lose John.

He stayed there for a while, racking his brain, trying in vain to come up with any sort of lead. It was quite a bit later before Donovan burst into the hallway, her eyes widening in relief as they focused on Sherlock.

"You! I've been looking for you," she called, jogging towards him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped with hostility.

She glared at him, but didn't stop talking. "You need to get to Lestrade's office." She was panting slightly, as if she had been running around searching for him. "Moriarty's sent us something."

He stared at her disbelievingly.

"A clue."

/\/\/\/\

**Chapter 3 should be up very soon ~**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! So, I think I'm going to try to give you an update once a week, if not more, on this story. I'll shoot for updating a new chapter every Sunday starting today. The thing is I had the last two chapters pre-written, which is why I updated them so quickly, but with school and my school's speech team starting to take over my life, I have less time to write/update. :)**

**Also, this chapter is quite a bit darker than the last two, so if you're a bit more sensitive, you have been fairly warned. There's nothing awfully graphic, but... I'm sure you can deduce what's happening with John. :P So yeah, this chapter definitely earns the 'T' rating.**

***Does it look like I own Sherlock?**

****The answer to that question is no**

*****Please don't sue me**

-oOo-

_**7:45 a.m., September 18**_

_/ She glared at him, but didn't stop talking. "You need to get to Lestrade's office." She was panting slightly, as if she had been running around searching for him. "Moriarty's sent us something."_

_He stared at her disbelievingly. _

"_A clue." /_

Sherlock was up and racing towards Lestrade's office before she had finished, his heart pounding. He rounded the corner and burst into the office, where Lestrade was watching something on his computer with a horrified expression on his face. Sherlock tried to look at it but Lestrade hid it from view immediately. His eyes were pained and he shook his head at the detective.

"Sherlock," he said hoarsely, "No, you shouldn't -"

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked panickedly. He tried to grab the laptop Lestrade was using, but Lestrade flipped it close and held it close. "What's wrong?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly, "Moriarty sent a video."

Pure fear was ripping through Sherlock's veins. "What did he do to him?" he gasped, desperately trying not to think about it - if John was - John was _dead -_

Lestrade could practically read his thoughts. "Oh, God no, he's not dead," he assured hastily, and Sherlock visibly relaxed, although only slightly. "He's just... it's..." He was at a loss for words. "I don't know if you should watch."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, trying to force his voice to be even, "You know as well as I do that if anybody can pick up clues, it's going to be me. I _need_ to watch it."

"I understand that, Sherlock," Lestrade said softly, "but this... I don't know if..."

Sherlock swallowed. "I can handle it," he assured the detective inspector, but his mind raced. Lestrade knew he was strong, but the fact that he was so insistent that Sherlock shouldn't watch the video made him nervous.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment before sighing in defeat. He flipped open the laptop, bringing up the video. "I'll play it from the beginning," he muttered, rewinding the video.

An image popped up on the screen, and immediately Sherlock's breath hitched.

It was John.

He was in the middle of a large, seemingly oval-shaped room with dark walls. He was standing in the middle, slightly elevated on a small wooden pedestal. His arms were strung up above him by strong ropes attached the the ceiling, and he was slumped forward, out cold. He had been stripped of everything but his trousers and hung there, bare-backed, helpless and looking terrible - but he was _still alive. _Sherlock felt a simultaneous thrill of relief and chill of dread at what was to come.

John was starting to stir, and Sherlock could see his eyes blink open for a moment before squeezing shut. He let out a little groan, and already Sherlock could feel his heart shattering -

_Good Lord, what is _wrong _with you, Sherlock?! You've never let a case affect you like this before -_

_But this is John._

Just a few seconds after John had started to stir, a door - which was situated to the far left of the camera and wasn't able to be seen - was heard squeaking open, and much more light filtered into the damp cell. John lifted his head, blinking at the sudden light, peering at the person who was at the door. His eyes widened as they focused.

"Good moooooooorning!" rang a deliriously sing-song voice, and Jim Moriarty came practically skipping into view. He beamed at John giddily, who turned his face away. "And how's our Sleeping Beauty?" he asked condescendingly, grabbing John's chin in his hand and forcing him to look the criminal straight in the eyes. John didn't reply, only glaring and wrenching his face away. Sherlock could see John's fists clenching, body slightly tensing.

"I can't _tell _you how happy I am to have you here!" Moriarty continued loudly, pacing grandly around John's figure in a circle. "I tell you, I've been trying to find a way to get to Sherlock for a while, now. My first thought was, of course, you - but there was no way to get you inconspicuously. You were always around Sherlock, or Lestrade, or another one of those pesky police officers you put up with. You were never alone!" Moriarty kept pacing, eying John with a twisted kind of hunger flaring in his eyes. "So it was a complete surprise to me when one of my assassins found you wandering the street _alone!_ We hadn't had time to come up with something, of course, so he had to settle with shooting you to knock you out." Moriarty motioned to the bandage that was still loosely wrapped around John's midriff. "You seemed to have recovered quickly, however. It wasn't meant to be a deep wound, just something to catch you off guard." Moriarty stopped his pacing directly in front of John, clapping his hands together and steeping them in front of his manic grin. "Oh, but we're going to have so much fun now!"

"What do you want?" John growled angrily, his eyes fighting not to betray his fear. "Why am I here?"

"Oh, I thought that was obvious," Moriarty said in surprise. "You're the only thing Sherlock cares about - you're his little pet doctor. He doesn't want to see you get hurt. It would tear him apart!" he said in mock sadness. "Which, in case you haven't noticed, is _exactly my goal._"

John shuddered visibly.

"'_So,'_ I said to myself, 'Jim - if we want to destroy Sherlock - if we want to bring him to his knees in front of us - what better way to do that then to force him to watch his best little pet get hurt because of him? Cause it's his fault you're here, you know."

John was shaking his head, trying to protest, but Moriarty cut him off. "Ever loyal to the end, I see, Dr. Watson. Well, maybe you'll feel a bit different about your dear old flatmate after our little... _session._" He uttered the last word with insane, dark glee, making John shiver under his gaze.

Sherlock watched in wide-eyed horror as Moriarty reached for something hidden from view, close to the wall. As he pulled back into sight, John and Sherlock both gave visible shudders.

Moriarty was holding a riding crop, nearly identical to the one that Sherlock owned. He turned it over twice in his hands, staring at it curiously.

"I heard that your friend, Sherlock, has one of these," he mused lightly. He grinned up at John. "We think alike, us two." His gaze flickered to the camera for only a split second. Sherlock blinked and noted this mentally, but the majority of his brain was still focused in horror on the scene playing out before him.

John was obviously bracing himself as Moriarty stalked around until he was facing John's back. He smirked.

"Let's start the fun, shall we?"

With that, he brought the riding crop down on John's back with a tremendous _crack._

John arched his back in pain as Moriarty brought it down again and again on his bare back, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock had a similar facial expression, and he turned away from the screen as John let loose a pain-filled shout.

"Oh dear, that looks like it hurts," Moriarty mocked; his gaze flickered up to the camera once more after this sentence. "Not that I care, of course."

He continued his assault on the helpless army doctor, who was tensing up against the blows raining down on his back. A particularly harsh crack cause him to whimper pitifully.

This went on for a minute or so before Moriarty got bored, tossing the crop aside. John slumped forward, panting for breath, the thick ropes still keeping his arms taut above his head, which had dropped to his chest. Moriarty was rummaging around offscreen for a bit before letting out a joyous whoop. He reappeared with a long, pronged stick.

"Look!" he exclaimed, like a child showcasing a new toy. Without warning, he jabbed it fiercely into John's side. John shouted as the stick transferred volts of electricity through his body. He arched his back, his whole body tensed, and shouted before Moriarty released the prong, and he collapsed forward.

"Shocking!" Moriarty grinned. John didn't move. "Are you okay? John? Jaaaaaaawn? Yoo-hoo!" He stuck the prong into John briefly again, shocking John back to consciousness. "What was _that_ for?" Sherlock again noticed Moriarty's gaze briefly flicker to the camera, but only vaguely. The majority of his mind was blanking, trying to stop his emotion from completely shutting down his body. Sherlock's hands were trembling visibly and his eyes were wide and pained, facts that Lestrade was not unaware of.

"You just love knocking yourself out, don't you?" Moriarty grumbled, rolling the prong around in his hands. "It's not fun when you do that." John seemed to be slipping out of reality again, so Moriarty angrily jabbed the sharp stick into John's side again, this time enough to draw blood. John jolted back with a scream, a terrified, tortured scream that made Sherlock inhale sharply.

Moriarty grabbed John's face with his hand as he had done previously, forcing the doctor to stare at him. He glared into John's eyes for a long moment. "You think this is bad," Moriarty noted musingly with a small chuckle. "John, John, John. I'm just the warmup. The preview. I'm the commercial. Your feature presentation," he said the words with mock bravado, "hasn't even begun yet, and you're ready to give up? No, no, no!" he laughed maniacally. "We're having too much _fun_ for that!" Once again, his gaze flashed to the camera. Sherlock was beyond caring, even though he once again made a note of the odd occurrence.

He jabbed the prong a few more times into John's side, cause the doctor to jerk violently each time. Then Moriarty sighed, tossing it to the side with abandon just like the riding crop.

"Y'know, toys like that are fun," he sighed, cocking his head to the side, "But sometimes the most fun is when you just use your _fists!_" He punctuated the last word with a flying fist to John's face. A crack filled the air, and John winced. Sherlock winced as well; Moriarty had to have a killer punch to make John wince. Moriarty shook his head, scowling. "No, even that's not fun." He put his hands to his mouth, regarding the silent doctor curiously.

His eyes lit up suddenly. "Oh, I know what it is!" he cried, smacking his forehead with his palm. "It's cause you're hardly making any noise. Usually by this time I have people _begging _for relief, but you... you're tough," he mused, pacing around John again, regarding him like he was a piece of meat. "Of course, once I break you in, you'll be just like the rest," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "You'll be cowering before me in no time."

John raised his head, glaring through the the small trickle of blood that marked where Moriarty had punched him stonily. "That's where you're wrong, Moriarty," he wheezed as he gasped for breath. "I don't know who you think I am, but I will never - ever - give in to you."

Moriarty studied him, slowly shaking his head. "Nah," he dismissed quietly, "Nah. You're nothing special. You might think you are, but you're _nothing,_ _John Watson,_" he suddenly screamed in the face of the army doctor. John didn't so much as blink. Moriarty shook his head again. "You're too ordinary. Just like anyone in this whole damn world. None of them have ever won against me, and neither will you." This came with another glance at the camera.

"Anyways... once I let _them_ have their way with you, you'll be begging for mercy _just - like -"_ he punctuated each word with a vicious punch to his face - "_the - rest!"_ He broke away, smirking as John gasped for breath, and sent him a sharp kick in the gut just for good measure.

Moriarty beamed, heading towards the door. "And now," he said in a deep, mocking voice, "for your feature presentation!" The door slid open, and he stood aside as a group of large, meaty guards crowded in, all wielding thick clubs, with huge, evil grins plastered against all of their faces. Moriarty entered in a code on the wall, his gaze resting for a second on the camera before he pressed the last button; silently, the restraints holding John up were released, and he crumpled soundlessly to the ground. The guards waited for Moriarty, who paused for a moment, staring at John before laughing cruelly.

"Get him."

With a shout, the guards advanced like a starving wolf pack on John's helpless body, Moriarty was strolling out of the room, and now Sherlock couldn't take it - he ran out of the room, tears blinding his eyes, and tried to get John's terrified screams, the crack of his bone, the gut-wrenching thuds of feet against his body out of his head.

But he couldn't.

He collapsed next to the wall outside the men's restroom, knees folded up to his chest; he buried his head in his arms as John's tortured cries echoed hauntingly in his head.

_This is all my fault_

and for a moment, a terrifying moment, his brain - his brain which could pinpoint a hundred different things in one moment - all his brain could comprehend were those three words

_all_

_his_

_fault_


End file.
